


Shallow

by Enimite



Category: Xī yóu jì | Journey to the West - Wú Cheng'en, 西遊 | Journey to the West (Chow Movies)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, M/M, Mentions of Duan, OR IS IT, One-Sided Attraction, Sanzang is really bad at admitting his crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-28 17:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17791973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enimite/pseuds/Enimite
Summary: The Monkey King of now was a far cry from the one Sanzang had first met under Five Element Mountain. Sanzang quickly finds this becoming a problem.Or, in which Tang Sanzang is a holy monk of absolute piety and therefore definitely doesn’t care if Sun Wukong was handsome or not.





	Shallow

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I just find it so hilarious how different Wukong looks from Conquering the Demons compared to the Demons Strike Back. Then it became a Sanzang pining for a Handsome Monkey King kind of fic. Not beta-read, so excuse my mistakes.

 

Was Tang Sanzang, chosen monk of Guan Yin and Buddha themselves, a shallow man?

Said holy monk, Sanzang, thought about this very hard to himself. _No, of course not._

Though low-key he is, Sanzang was still a man of great depth and inner virtue. Of course such a person wouldn't be affected by something as insignificant as someone’s outer appearance.

 _“Yeah? Tell that to Felicity,”_ a voice snickers at the back of his mind, sounding very much like that of his first disciples. Even in his own head Sanzang couldn’t seem to be rid of Wukong’s incessant presence.  

And in there laid the problem. _He couldn’t stop thinking about Sun Wukong._

The Monkey King of now was a far cry from the one Sanzang had first met under Five Element Mountain. That demon king had skin a sickly shade of pale, lack of sun and dust of a five hundred year old cavern coating it grey. A fallen king, almost desperate in his mannerisms. Tired eyes, sallow looking face, and dressed in rags that could barely be called clothing, hanging limply on an almost skeletal form.

Even in the beginning, at the very first step in their journey west, Wukong had already looked quite different from the craggly aged man Tang Sanzang had met in that mountain.

Wukong practically blossomed under his newfound freedom. He looked slightly younger, transforming from decrepit caveman to a very scruffy-looking male. His skin tanned easily under the first exposure of sun. What had been a half-balding head became filled with unruly brown hair that stuck up in spikes wildly, a fact that made Sanzang touch his own, now bare head, with not a small amount of bitterness. Before Wukong had stood hunched, as if his bones couldn’t bear the weight of his own flesh, but now the Great Sage stretches tall, long-awaited freedom dissipating whatever chains that weighed the monkey down.

He still slouches, but less as if there was a weight than that he was too lazy and simply couldn’t bother standing up straight.

Even Wukong’s demonic form changed, to Sanzang’s notice. Taller and stronger-looking now; and with red-brown and gold shades replacing the drab grey fur the Monkey’s true form sported before.

At first Sanzang is very much pleased with his first disciple’s changes. As disobedient and infuriating Wukong can be, enough for Sanzang to warrant punishing for more times a week than he may like, to see the Great Sage healthier and happier makes him glad. More-so the monk also likes to think that it meant his teachings were making a difference, expelling the demonic energy of his eldest disciple, putting him onto the right path and making the demon into something much more human.

Then Wukong _keeps_ changing.

His hair grows darker and longer, wave upon wave sitting messily on top of his head. He becomes even younger; no longer a middle-aged beggar but instead now a man much closer to Sanzang’s own age. A very fit, good-looking man. Black markings accents Wukong’s fiery eyes—”From soot,” his first disciple explains, but if that was true then why didn’t he have them _before?_ —and with his dark, heavy brows it gives the Monkey King a look Sanzang can only describe as _smouldering_.

In short: Wukong was _handsome_. Unfortunately so, because now Sanzang can’t seem to stop thinking him handsome and rather wishes Wukong had stayed an ugly, decrepit old man.

Sneakily, Sanzang peers up at the demon that so occupied his thoughts. Wukong was lounged on top of a tree, body relaxed and carefully balanced on a precarious looking branch. The Great Sage’s eyes were closed, facial expression so nearly peaceful despite the permanent furrow of his brows. A smoothened stick was held loosely between white teeth and thin lips.

Sanzang never understood the ‘Handsome’ part of the Monkey King’s numerous titles, but if it was like _this_ then maybe he understands now—just a little bit.

“There’s nothing wrong with thinking someone handsome,” Sanzang mutters to himself. “I’m very handsome; I should know when someone else is handsome. Even Wuneng is handsome when he disguises himself.”

Unfortunately for the monk, his musings were overheard.

“Master’s started talking to himself,” his third disciple’s voice speaks up besides him.

“Mayhaps there’s a pit in master’s brain,” his second disciple says, hiding a mocking smile behind long sleeves.

Wukong snorts from his place above them. “And is that something new? I already knew that.”

“He called the pig handsome.”

“Then it’s even worse than I thought.”

_“Master!”_

“Who has a pit in his brain?” Sanzang snaps, anger and embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Even if I did, it’d be because every day I have to deal with disciples like you three! Do you think just anyone has the patience of a buddha like your master?”

Properly chastised (though Sanzang knew better than to think they’ve reflected), his disciples sit silently. He continues, “if I weren’t so kind and understanding, you would’ve all been exorcised under my sodding palm long ago!”

With a huff, and perhaps a bit more dramatic than he intended, Sanzang marches off. He gathers his woodworking tools and the half-done wooden figure of Siddhartha he’d been working on from their traveling cart. He works on the carving with more fervor than ever, determined to purge away all thoughts of his first disciple and his _handsomeness_.

 

* * *

 

The Great Sage, Equal of Heaven, remains pervasive in his mind.

Sanzang tells himself that it’s hate which makes him think of the Monkey King, for his role in Duan’s untimely demise, but the excuse is as flimsy to him as the ragged, travel-worn patchwork of cloth he calls his robes on his back.

Sanzang knows he hasn’t hated Sun Wukong since the beginning.

What he feels now—Sanzang isn’t quite sure. Pride, perhaps, for how far Wukong had come. Exasperation, certainly, for the eldest disciple’s tireless antics. And something else, a little something that Sanzang can’t find a name for.

As he thinks Sanzang eyes his first disciple, an action he finds himself doing often these recent days. Currently Wukong lumbers just a bit ahead of their ragtag group, staff perched atop his left shoulder lazily. It’s another long stretch in the journey, at least a few more days of constant travel until the next town. The Monkey King’s ratty cloth hood is left down this time and Sanzang can see the telltale hint of gold peek through Wukong’s dark-tousled hair.

Not for the first time, Sanzang regrets giving him the headband. He had meant it as a sign of forgiveness, of his ability to move on from his loss, and of his determination for the Journey West to retrieve the sutras. He _does_ mean it. But even now the decision haunts him; the golden band that had momentarily served as his ring for a never-to-be wedding. Every glint of it from atop his first disciple’s head teases him, reminding Sanzang of Duan and the feelings of love he had for her.

And it’s for this reason only, that Sanzang’s chest tightens just so when he looks upon his eldest disciple.

When Wukong laughs, all loud and boisterous Sanzang is reminded of Duan’s unlady-like laugh. Wukong’s shamelessness makes Sanzang think of Duan’s own actions towards him. Duan’s smiles were all teeth and Wukong’s is too. They both smiled like they knew something Sanzang didn’t, sly and mischievous.

It doesn’t help that Wukong clearly knows about his inner turmoil. Insufferable monkey that his first disciple is, Sun Wukong plays up the part all too enthusiastically to the monk’s increasing detriment. When it’s obvious the Tang monk is fantasizing again, Wukong raises the pitch of his voice and talks like how he knows how Duan would. He twirls his hair around his fingers like a woman and peers up flirtatiously beneath long lashes. He touches the monk more, teasing and playful. All in all, it’s very unhealthy for Sanzang’s emotional well-being.

It’s something that can’t be allowed to go on, so he tries to focus on the differences. The actions Duan made were because she cared too much and Wukong acts like he never cares enough. Duan’s skin, while dirty, was still fair underneath while Wukong’s seemed permanently stained by soot and ash. Duan’s smile was bright and earnest. When Wukong smiles he smiles too broadly, wide and sharp, looking as if he was about to go for one’s neck.

It works. But when Sanzang no longer sees Duan’s face over his first disciple’s he finds that it’s very, very much worse.

Now every little action he takes notice of is _Wukong’s_ . His laugh, like a cackle and a giggle at the same time, is very much _Wukong’s_ laugh. When he smiles sly, mischievous, and entirely a little too knowing its _Wukong’s_ smile, not Duan’s.

“It’s getting dark.” _Wukong’s_ voice, a lazy sort of drawl, brings Sanzang out of his thoughts. “There’s a small clearing just ahead of the road, to the right. We should make camp for the night, master.”

Sanzang blinks at him, before nodding his head. “Alright,” he murmurs his assent.

As each of his disciples do their part in setting up camp Sanzang again finds his sight drifting to watch the motions of the eldest. Sun Wukong moves as he usually does: with an exaggerated laziness that told others of how much he couldn’t be bothered, and at the same time with a confidence and extravagance that demanded attention for every action he made. Everything Wukong does is so uniquely _him_ that Sanzang wonders how he saw Duan in the demon in the first place.

The worst part of it all is that Sanzang doesn’t have an excuse for the feeling in his chest anymore.

 

* * *

 

Sanzang finds that his favorite moments are when he’s dreaming. It’s always the same: Duan’s form dancing in the moonlight, sitting, lying together—simply enjoying the other’s presence. She’s real and alive, and Sanzang can hold her hand or give her that kiss that he never did when she still breathed.

It’s the same this time too. They’re lying on the ground, bodies warm against cool earth. The heavens circle above, uninterested in the small goings of the two mortals beneath them.

But when he holds her hand her fingers are thicker and longer than he remembers. The body against him is hard, not soft, feeling more like stone instead of flesh but still impossibly warm. When Sanzang looks up it’s not Duan’s fine features he sees but the rugged, red-marked face of his first disciple. Yet, for some reason, Sanzang feels no surprise.

Wukong’s face is peaceful and for once it doesn’t look like the monkey wants to kill him in the worst of ways. The hate and fury etched onto his face from five hundred years of entrapment is gone, smoothed away by Sanzang’s patience and care. There’s a soft satisfaction in the Great Sage’s eyes, an emotion Sanzang has never seen in them before, along with something else that makes the monk’s breath stall. When Wukong leans in for a kiss, Sanzang doesn’t pull away and closes his eyes—

Sanzang wakes up with a cold horror, the wooden buddha sculpture somehow clutched in his arms.

“About time you woke up, master,” Wukong calls from the hearth. “Sandy’s already done with the cooking.”

“Must’ve been a nice dream,” Zhu Bajie says, somehow snide. Wukong smacks him hard on the back of his head.

The dream had felt much too real, and even now Sanzang feels the phantom warmth of a calloused hand dissipate from the space between his fingers. Unbidden, Sanzang drifts his sight to his eldest disciple’s lips: slightly parted, twig ever present.

_Wukong leans in for a kiss—_

Sanzang’s mouth goes dry.

Grumbling in pain, Bajie rubs his head before taking a glance at his master. The venerable elder’s eyes are impossibly wide and his mouth hangs open in a strange stupor, looking more like a fish out of water than Wujing if such a thing were possible. He shakes his head.

“Master truly does have a pit in his brain,” Bajie says sympathetically.

“Hm,” is the reply his elder brother gives, fingers twitching. “I knew that.”

 

* * *

 

They’re resting by a riverbed, a small moment of peace in the nonstop hardship that is their journey. The sun is warm, but not overbearing, and the wind blows pleasantly against Sanzang’s skin. His disciples are in the stream, washing away miles-worth of dust and grime from their bodies in the cool waters.

Sanzang meditates under the shade of an old willow. It’s a rare moment that he can recite the sutras and precepts without distraction and, with the current state of his mind and the dream that’s so recent in his memory, Buddha knows he needs to gather his thoughts.

He’s barely gotten past his fifth mantra when there’s a sound of a pig squeal, and a monkey’s screech, along with a loud splash. Sandy yells an expletive of curses. Sanzang cracks an eye open, mouth tilted into a frown, ready to reprimand his unruly disciples.

No reprimand comes though, because when Sanzang opens his eyes he catches the sight of Sun Wukong’s half-naked form.

Droplets drip seductively slow on a long, lean body, belonging to that of a god (or, in this case, someone equal to). Under the bright sun the dews shine like little jewels on a spread of shoulders, tapering down to a narrow thrust of hips. The Great Sage’s expression is carefree, fiery eyes crinkled upwards in its usual mischief. Wild hair, tamed from being wet, slicks itself back and frames Wukong’s already handsome features as if it were a portrait to be admired.

Tang Sanzang is not a shallow man.

He tells this to himself even as his mind goes blank, so occupied it is with the sight of dark features and fiery eyes. He repeats _“form is an illusion,”_ countless times in his head while his gaze follows the path of a single droplet run down the expanse of a wide back. He engraves the third precept into his heart even as he remembers thin lips, tantalizing close to his own, and imagines what it would be like to touch that tan-greyed chest

Sanzang knows he’s stared for a little too long because Wukong notices and stares back at him.

Wukong grins, sly, mischievous, and a little too knowing.

Sanzang’s heart stops, for just a moment.

Perhaps he was a little bit shallow.

**Author's Note:**

> Pit in your brain = Not right in the head; foolish.  
> It was part of the title of this manhwa called "There's a Pit in My Senior Martial Brother's Brain" and idk I liked the phrase.


End file.
